According to Plan
by Jack of None
Summary: [Raffles: The Amateur Cracksman] A night on the roof, rudely interrupted...but Raffles is not easily dissuaded from his purpose. RafflesBunny, Slash.


I was still trembling – and not merely from the chill of the autumn rain – when Raffles and I finally made our way into the depths of his flat. The cold barrel of Lord Ernest's pistol against the back of my head; the helpless sense of inevitability as I waited, pinioned to the rail, for my friend to emerge unawares; the fearsome certainty that here Raffles had lead me to my doom at last...these things had failed to leave my mind entirely, even now that the scoundrel himself lay on the sidewalk in a broken, bloodied heap some three stories below us. So I took the familiar stairs in subdued silence – grateful, indeed, to be alive at all.

My rescuer, it seemed, succumbed to no such uncertainties. As we descended he slowly lost the expression of grim purpose that had characterized his actions on the roof, and by the time we had found the door to his flat a bit of his familiar smile had returned. I recognized that faint smile quite well – it was one of satisfaction, the sort that indicated he had just put one over on someone and was feeling quite clever about it. And I suppose he had, indeed, put one over on his Lordship – he had arrived with the intention of killing the both of us, and in doing so sealed his own fate.

The sitting room, which had seemed so unbearably hot earlier in the night, was a welcome relief from the shivering cold of the sudden spring rain. I shucked off my waterlogged jacket and tossed it on the hat rack, where it dripped steadily onto the floor, and half-collapsed into closest chair. I was suddenly conscious of my own overwhelming exhaustion; if I had been alone, I would have fallen asleep in that very chair, still soaked to the skin, and slept until morning.

However, I was not alone, and Raffles, when he has a mind to be, is extraordinarily talkative.

"Well, at least we can take comfort in the knowledge that his Lordship did not spoil our plans as much as we'd thought – we'd have had to come inside in any case, on account of the rain. Not, of course, that I'd intended to spend the entire evening outside." He threw open a nearby closet and rummaged through it, searching for something to dry himself. I was in no mood for banter; I merely sunk deeper into the chair and closed my eyes. "Think, Bunny!" Raffles continued. "We've won! Our evening will proceed almost exactly as we'd planned...only we can now raise a glass the well-deserved fate of that presumptuous rogue whose corpse currently graces the cobblestones. Imagine what the papers will say when the sun comes up tomorrow." I opened my eyes; Raffles was busy drying his hair with one of the guest towels. I had the strange impression that Raffles' hair, darkened by the water and obscured by the candlelight, had returned to its original jet-black coloration, as though that grim premature grey was nothing more than a clever disguise the downpour had washed away. For a moment, I felt as though we were back in his flat in London on that fateful March 15 – no, even more than that! I felt, with the strange lightness that comes after a great disaster has been averted, that we were schoolboys again together, facing nothing more dreadful than a headmaster's disapproving glare.

The impression was not to last. Raffles vanished into the pantry, and I was left alone with my own thoughts. I set about removing my waterlogged shoes and waistcoat, and undoing (with some effort) the wet tangle that had once been a respectable Windsor knot. Raffles re-emerged presently, just as he had on the roof, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. These he set on the side table, and he handed me a second towel, which he had thrown over his shoulder. I squeezed the rainwater out of my own hair with it, then wrapped it around my shoulders to ward off the chill.

"Lord Ernest may have robbed us of two pieces of crystal and a bottle of fine wine, but luckily I've always believed in keeping spares of anything important." He tipped the bottle and filled my glass, then his. "A toast?" he said, raising an eyebrow and picking up his own glass. I did not immediately follow his lead, still overcome as I was by weariness and cold, and said nothing. Raffles, it seemed, misinterpreted my hesitation.

"My dear rabbit," he murmured, setting his glass down, his expression suddenly growing serious, "that brute didn't hurt you, did he? Besides that little tap on the jaw earlier tonight."

"I would be more worried about yourself," I replied, "and it was rather more than a tap – I was out cold for–"

"Show me your wrists," he said, as I reached for my glass. I looked down – there was a bit of blood and the beginnings of a livid bruise around the edge of my sleeves.

Obediently, I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled them back, revealing the raw rings where the handcuffs had bitten into my flesh. "It's scarcely bleeding, and I did most of it to myself, being in too much of a hurry to get away. It's nothing." Raffles clucked his tongue at me.

"Even if it is nothing, it's awfully conspicuous. It'll have to be bandaged, and no protests," he said, as I opened my mouth to say something exactly to that effect. He stood up and went over to the chest where that wretched doctor kept his spare supplies; it only took a few moment's work with a hairpin before the flimsy lock snapped open. Raffles helped himself liberally to the doctor's supply of gauze and slipped off to draw a bowl of water.

Presently he returned, and motioned for me to put my hands on the table. This I did, and Raffles began carefully to wash away the blood and grime of the struggle from my wounded wrists. He worked with the same studied deftness that I had often seen him employ while cracking safes or picking locks – his touch was so light that I barely winced. If he had possessed the knack for honest work, I reflected, Raffles might have made a fine surgeon; in any event he possessed an extraordinary delicacy of touch.

"Won't bandages only be more conspicuous?" I asked, as he picked up the doctor's gauze. Raffles shook his head.

"That's the thing about people, Bunny," he said, smiling. "They are perfectly content to imagine that the injury under the bandages matches your story. Say it was a sporting accident."

"A sporting accident?"

"It was, in a sense," Raffles said, tying off the bandage. "Team rivalries, you see – it's just like cricket."

I tested my bandages; they impeded the movement of my wrists somewhat, but I had to admit that Raffles was right. This would be far less conspicuous and, what was more important, easier to lie about – falsehood has never come as naturally to me as it did to Raffles, who was equally at home (and equally convincing) with truth and lies.

"Thank you," I said, picking up my long-neglected glass. "You were right, of course. As you always are."

Raffles leaned over the tiny table and looked at me with curious intensity, and I had the feeling (as I sometimes do) that he was not looking at me, but indeed into my innermost thoughts. In that moment, he wore a smile I have seldom seen before or since – a look of disarmingly sincere affection.

I could not meet his gaze – I lifted my glass instead. "A toast," I said, "as you suggested. To..." I cast about for a proper dedication. "To the best man winning, I suppose," I said, and took a long draught of the wine. True to Raffles's tastes, it was a very good vintage, and it immediately took the edge off of the lingering cold.

"What a dear rabbit you are," he murmured, half to himself, it seemed. "To an uninterrupted evening," he said, raising his glass – but he did not drink from it. I cannot remember exactly how it occurred – Raffles, when he has a mind to be, is extraordinarily quick, and it was the work of an instant for him to close the distance between us and touch his lips to mine.

The action was so sudden, so utterly shocking that it was a moment before I could react at all. I leapt backwards, away from his embrace (upsetting my chair in my surprise) and uttered some half-coherent cry of protest...I do not recall saying anything, but I must have, for Raffles answered me. As long as I live I shall never forget Raffles' reply:

"I was rather intending to kiss you, but if you're really so opposed to the idea, I shan't."

His eyes were amused and almost mocking; all trace of that peculiar, tender look had vanished. But still the image of that gaze held me fast – in that moment, I would have done anything – anything at all – to see Raffles looking at me like that again. Perhaps that was why I immediately said "No! No! I want–" but caught myself halfway through the exclamation, aghast at my reaction.

"Want what, Bunny?" Raffles said, smiling wickedly. I shook my head, and he leaned in close to me again. "If you want, we can forget this ever happened. You go to your room, I shall go to mine, and you can blame it all on drink."

"You haven't had any of the wine," I breathed.

"It will hardly be the first time a fellow's lied to himself and believed it."

"I'll never be...even half the liar you are," I said. It was difficult to think with Raffles so close to me – he overwhelmed my better judgement.

"Then tell me what you want."

"For God's sake, Raffles, you i know /i what I want!" He always did – better, at times, than I did myself. But he still looked at me with that sardonic half-smile I often saw when Raffles was considering some particularly amusing problem.

"If we both know, then what's the harm in saying it?" What was the harm, indeed? What was the harm in admitting another sin, when both of us had been damned together since the moment I had agreed to be Raffles' accomplice?

"I want..." I faltered, and closed my eyes.

"Yes, Bunny?"

"I want– Raffles, I want you to...to...kiss me again."

He leaned over and stroked my hair fondly, and called me his good rabbit. I did not open my eyes then – not as he kissed my lips again, or as he began expertly to undo the fastenings of my collar. Instead, I imagined Raffles leaning over me, his hair black again and his eyes full of gentleness. Equally persuasive, he was, with truth and lies – and whether I was snared by falsehood or sincerity, I cannot tell to this day.


End file.
